


Beware the Hunting Hawk

by chameleontattoos



Series: Wolf & Wildcat [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age II - Act 3, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22890916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleontattoos/pseuds/chameleontattoos
Summary: Folks who are new to Kirkwall learn very quickly that to stay on Hawke’s good side, all you really have to do is buy her a drink and be polite to her friends. It’s not a particularly complicated arrangement – which makes it all the more absurd that some people go out of their way to demonstratejust how badtheir manners are.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Series: Wolf & Wildcat [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553473
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	Beware the Hunting Hawk

No one with any sense talks down to the Champion’s companions. Hawke is very protective—it’s one of the most Fereldan things about her, alongside _always carries an oilskin in case it rains_ and _drinks cheap ale like a woman dying of thirst_.

Folks who are new to Kirkwall learn very quickly that to stay on Hawke’s good side, all you really have to do is buy her a drink and be polite to her friends. It’s not a particularly complicated arrangement – which makes it all the more absurd that some people go out of their way to demonstrate _just how bad_ their manners are.

\----

Roisin has been given the rare gift of a quiet afternoon, and she has decided to spend it perusing the wares being offered by the Hightown market.

She has even, miracle of miracles, managed to convince one surly elf to step outside and enjoy the sunshine.

Not that he’s taking much advantage of it, the way he sticks to her like a fly on glue-paper.

“You know, you don’t have to stay on Hawke’s tail _all_ the time,” Varric comments. “Go find yourself some nice trinkets or something.”

Fenris pulls his sharp green eyes away from the people in the square for a moment to shoot the dwarf an annoyed look. “I don’t need _trinkets_ ,” he bites.

This close to him, Roisin can’t fail to notice the way his pointed ear twitches warily at every loud noise.

“It’s alright, Fenris.” She knows that he’s just concerned. The markets here are wide open, not easily defended; the scar that bisects her stomach still gets tender with ghost pain, some days.

She reaches a hand over her shoulder to tap the pommel of one of her daggers. Roisin is the only noble in the market wearing weapons that don’t look like they’ll snap after a single swing. “I’ll be within shouting distance.”

“You won’t leave without finding me first?” he asks, reaching out and lightly clasping her fingers.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Roisin turns their joined hands and strokes his unarmoured palm with the pad of her thumb. “I promise not to start any riots until you get back.”

The elf grumbles under his breath for a few moments, but eventually he nods once and sidles away to look at some of the stalls.

\----

Many pairs of eyes track his progress. Some only spare him a glance; Fenris is not an unfamiliar sight to those who know the Champion. It is no surprise to them that he should be at her side even when there are no pirates to chase off, nor monsters to slay.

Others watch him curiously. Fenris has something of a reputation himself; to have him appear in such a mundane setting must feel rather a lot like crossing paths with an actor beyond the walls of their playhouse.

There is a small number of people present, shoppers and sellers both, who regard him with disgust, disdain, mistrust, an air of moral superiority, or a combination of the above. They disapprove of his being there; he’s a homeless rogue agent, a _danger_ —horrifying, that _ability_ of his—and ought to be leashed. It’s a matter of public safety!

The braver souls among them go so far as to lean over to their neighbour and, secure in the knowledge that they have the right of it, say things like:

“He’s Hawke’s attack dog, that one.”

Hawke may be named for a bird of prey, but she has the hearing of a cat and the stealth to match. She’ll appear behind a fellow and have him be none the wiser until she strikes.

Her fingers lace together at the small of her back as she leans over the shoulder of the unlucky bastard and speaks directly into his ear. “I would _strongly_ advise that you retract that comment, my good man,” she purrs, stepping smoothly to the side when the vendor’s fight-or-flight reflex sends an elbow jerking into the space where her chin would have been

“M-Messere Hawke!” he fumbles, glancing furtively at the spice seller presenting her wares in the stall next to his for some assistance. She’ll take pity on him, help him, _surely_ —but no, she’s looking back at him with thinned lips and crossed arms, as though he’s personally offended her by speaking the truth.

And it _is_ the truth, every man knows it. Hawke snaps her fingers, the elf snaps people’s necks. That’s how it’s been for years. He’s heard the stories.

Fine, then. He can handle this himself. All nobles are the same, just have to lay the honey on thick and they’ll forgive you. “You honour me with your patronage,” he simpers, trying to lean away without making it too obvious.

“That remains to be seen.” Hawke smiles, propping an idle hand on her hip. “Varric, who is this _fine_ salesman?”

“Geris Newall, vendor of scented candles. He’s been operating out of this market for… oh, about a year now.” The dwarf trailing in her wake—and it most certainly is Varric Tethras, Andraste save him. If he weren’t already playing the salesman the best he ever has in his life—picks up one of the candles and examines it closely, turning it upside-down and smoothing a thumb over the maker’s mark. “Isn’t that right, Geris?”

He won’t find a thing wrong with it; Geris had paid good, honest coin for the stock lining his stall. Which is to say, he’d profit thrice over compared to what he’d paid his supplier in Darktown.

“That is correct, serah.” Geris nods furiously. He’s suddenly very glad that he’d remembered to pay rent to the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild earlier than usual this month. Practically eat gold, those dwarves. The more you feed them, the friendlier they’ll be.

“Quite a feat, what with the state of our fair city these days.” Hawke is still smiling. It’s too bright, almost sharp, like the sun on a dry and cloudless day at the height of summer. Geris shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. So, Hawke isn’t buying the honey. That’s fine. He can still figure his way out of this.

“Tell me, Geris: Are you new to Kirkwall?” As she asks her question, she glances briefly at something outside of his field of vision and shakes her head slightly. Geris doesn’t dare look away from her—Maker knows he’ll only make life harder for himself if he so much as _breathes_ wrong, damn nobles—but he hears the faint scraping of metal on metal.

Some _one_ , not some _thing_. He suppresses a shudder. This isn’t the first time a noble has brought hired muscle to ‘deal’ with him, and it probably won’t be the last. It’s all for intimidation. They’re all the same that way. That said, he sure could use a sip of ale right about now. He’s only a man; he wants to be run through with a sword about as much as any man would. His throat feels drier than bone when he swallows. “Set up shop but a month after arriving, messere, indeed.”

“Right into the thick of it, eh? Well done, you.” Hawke takes the candle that Tethras passes her and appears to test its weight, rolling the cylinder of wax between her palms, before handing it back to the dwarf with a nod.

“Thank you, messere.” Geris relaxes, reaching for his carton of samples. Nobody, not even nobles like Hawke who are practically swimming in gold, can resist free samples. “If you would, messere, I have—”

He resists the temptation to scowl when she cuts him off. “It’s unfortunate, really, that our paths should cross for the first time over such unpleasantness. I might have purchased several of your products. Now we’ll never know what might have been.”

What a _terrible_ shame it is that he’ll not see her again. “You have my most sincere apologies, Messere Hawke,” Geris replies dutifully, grinding his teeth. He’s losing customers while she stands there and natters at him—more than one passer-by glances at her back and hurries on their way.

“Oh, no matter. I’ve always preferred to source my candles directly from Darktown. Something about it always being as dim as dusk down there just seems to mean better candles. Wouldn’t you agree, Varric?”

“That it’s as dark as the inside of a street dog’s ass? Absolutely.”

“Charming. At any rate—Over the duration of the year and one month in which you’ve resided in this little slice of heaven—” Tethras snorts; the corner of Hawke’s mouth quirks up, but she otherwise ignores him. “Have you spoken to very many elves, Geris?”

“Elves, Messere Hawke?” Maferath’s toenails, this woman is _impossible_. “A few, I should think.”

“Elves, indeed.” Hawke smiles blithely. “Have they seemed particularly… canine, to you? Large teeth, sharp claws?” Her eyes flick to that same place just behind him, and he would swear on his sister’s best crockpot that he sees a sparkle in her eye. “Floppy ears?”

Well, at least he knows it’s not a Guardsman there at his back, if it’s an elf. How much harm can an elven house-servant with a sword really do? “I wouldn't say so, no.”

“No, of course not!” Hawke titters. “That would be utterly absurd. Elves are not dogs.”

Geris has friends in the foundries who are going to _love_ hearing about this. The woman is cracked! She has to be. The Champion of Kirkwall, utterly off her head. “Quite right, messere. Elves are, indeed, altogether different to dogs.”

“And yet…” Hawke straightens. The hand that had been resting casually on her hip moves to her belt, where hangs a _very_ sharp-looking knife. And it’s not even one of the ones that has a name. Not one he’s ever heard, in any event. He can’t decide whether that makes him feel better about his chances.

Her eyes are like shards of ice. “Here you are, proud as a cock in springtime, reducing a perfectly capable and entirely free elf to nothing more than… What was it, Varric?” She tips her head to the side, but those cold blue pools never leave Geris’ face.

“I believe the parlance he used was _Hawke’s attack dog_.”

Her smile is as thin and sharp as a razor. “Quite so.”

 _Come on now, Geris, you can bring this back. Business voice. Don’t want to die today, do we?_ “Please, Messere Hawke, I meant no disrespect—”

“Not to me, perhaps.” She narrows her eyes. “I’m going to tell you a little story, candle vendor Geris Newall. While you were gallivanting around Hambleton, lobbying your cousin’s family for enough of a loan to start your business—”

Geris is so caught up in the realisation that maybe stroking her ego _isn’t_ going to work, he almost misses the revelation that Hawke is somehow privy to a piece of information he’s _quite_ sure isn’t public knowledge. “How—How did you—”

“Please, save all questions until the end. As I was saying: while you were doing that, we had a visit from the Qunari Arishok and quite a few of his friends. Perhaps word of it reached you? They caused no end of strife for the Viscount and the City Guard; it was all very…” she flutters a hand. “Very messy. At any rate, Fenris here—” she looks over his shoulder again. There’s a quiet sigh. “Contrary to his own belief, played no small part in sorting it all out.”

Tethras tuts. “Such flair for downplaying drama.”

The person behind Geris—Fenris himself, he now understands, and he wants to groan because this whole situation is that _damned_ elf’s fault—speaks up. “There is nothing wrong with exercising a little bit of tact, dwarf.”

The dwarf chuckles. “Only you would advocate for _tact_ when someone pays you a compliment.” It’s now that Geris notices a slip of parchment in his hand, and only because it’s in full view when he tucks it into the pouch at his hip. He catches Geris watching him and quirks a brow, patting the pouch with a beringed hand.

“My _point_ , Geris,” Hawke says delicately, drawing his attention back to her. “Is that you really ought to improve your knowledge of current events, although I wouldn’t be surprised if you had nothing between your ears but a bag of fish piss.” Her lip curls disdainfully. “Do enjoy the remainder of your time in Kirkwall, ser. I hope you find it _most_ enlightening.”

\----

“That was quite the display.” Fenris says mildly. He directs a brief, narrow-eyed glare at a suspicious character loitering at the upcoming bend in the avenue. Metal flashes as the man flees.

One would think that the muggers of Kirkwall might think twice about trying to steal from the woman who ended the Arishok.

They do not.

Hawke grins, a decidedly proud bounce to her step. “Frippery shopping _and_ a show. I certainly liven this city up, don’t I.” Paper crinkles as she adjusts her grip on the package in her arms.

“Terrorising merchants is _certainly_ an effective way to acquire a reputation,” Fenris replies. He pointedly keeps his eyes forward. Andraste knows he loves her, but Roisin Hawke has a particular talent for causing a scene.

“He deserved it.” He can _hear_ her roll her eyes as she responds.

“Hawke—”

“He was a horrible, prejudiced little man, Fenris. I wasn’t going to stand by and let him talk about you that way.” She scowls for a moment before her features smooth out into something more playful. “And I _am_ armed, in case you’d forgotten. You can stop giving the evil eye to every aspiring cutpurse we come across.”

“One of us ought to,” Fenris snorts. “I’d be surprised if you could see your own two feet past that ridiculous thing, never mind the six mud-brained ingrates who’ve tried to rob you.” Contained in the butcher’s paper is some sort of contraption that Orana requires for her weaving. Orana would have come out to purchase it herself, so said Hawke, but she’d suffered an attack of the vapours and the thought of leaving the house had only made it worse. The thing is absurdly large and, Fenris is _quite_ certain, obscures almost the full range of Hawke’s vision.

“Seven,” Hawke replies, hefting the package.

“Come again?”

“Seven. There was one at the market. Although I suppose one could count that awful salesman as a robber. Those candles were horrifically overpriced. So, eight mud-brained ingrates who’ve tried to rob me. But I did give the actual pickpocket a silver for a job well done. Well, slipped it down the back of her jerkin as a surprise for later. Didn’t look like she had any pockets of her own.”

Fenris opens his mouth to respond, realising a beat too late that he has no real retort to offer. “Ah.”

Hawke hums. “I know you know me better than that, Fenris,” she says, turning the full force of those arrestingly blue eyes on him. “I notice things.”

“I’m sorry.” He _does_ know her better. She’s been the sharp-eyed watcher for as long as he’s known her, and for twice again as many years before even that. It was entirely remiss of him to forget.

“Apology accepted.” Hawke presses her shoulder against his without breaking stride, turning her gaze back to the street. “Although, I suppose I _could_ still use some practice. I’ve yet to best Isabela at cards.”

“ _Isabela_ is a filthy cheat,” Fenris snorts. “And you can tell her I said as much.”

“And make her cheat _more_? I don’t think so,” Hawke hoots.

The package in her arms crinkles as she shifts its weight. It seems that it has finally become too cumbersome. Fenris is about to ask if she would let him carry it—even for only a moment—when he feels the warm brush of her fingers against his palm.

They can’t properly tangle their fingers together like this, him in his gauntlets and her in her gloves, but they fit together snugly enough that when Fenris lifts his hand he brings hers with it. He touches her knuckles to his lips before letting their joined hands drop back to swing between them.

“…Thank you, Hawke,” he says, stealing a glance in her direction even as he avoids her gaze. “Your defence of me is… It never ceases to…” He frowns, internally cursing his leaden tongue.

He glances at her again, hoping to find inspiration, and is only mildly startled to make eye contact. He refuses to acknowledge the way the tips of his ears warm under her gaze.

The heat only grows when her lips curl into a smile. “You’re very welcome, Fenris.”

**Author's Note:**

> Another WIP bites the dust. Look at me go!!
> 
> As always, come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/solarfruit)!!


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